


Control

by My_Young_Friend



Category: Dexter - Fandom, Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Young_Friend/pseuds/My_Young_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/20075">Spatter</a>. <br/>Dexter's fixation on a case comes full circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

Title: Control  
Pairing: Dexter/Sylar  
Rating: NC-17  
Summary: A follow up to [this Sylar/Dexter fic](http://my-young-friend.livejournal.com/1536.html#cutid4), but could be read as a standalone. Set between seasons three and four, Dexter's fixation on a case comes full circle.  
Notes/Warning: Spoilers up to Season Three. Warnings for violence and drugs.   
Thanks to [](http://airspaniel.livejournal.com/profile)[**airspaniel**](http://airspaniel.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/)  for stand up betas.

   
"Hey, poppa Dex!"

Three months to go, and Debs is determined to make sure I never forget my impending fatherhood. Sometimes I wonder if she'd rather be having the baby. I think Rita's at the point where she'd consider it.

Whatever brought her over here seems to be forgotten when she glances at my screen. Debs is nosey - like a good detective should be - and so there's no point in minimising the file I have up.

"The Mendez case? Fuck Dex, that was like a year and a half ago."

One year, forty-one weeks and 5 days.

"It's still an open file."

"C'mon, that's been shelved. It's tragic but our only lead vanished into thin air the day of the discovery. No DNA, no prints, we don't even have any video of him going into and out of the building because the camera fucking fritzed."

"It's a mystery." And that won't change, unless he wants it to.

"Ahh." That's the sound Debs makes when she's figured something out. Since the Bay Harbour Butcher case, it's always managed to send a small shiver down my spine. "So it's because you don't understand it. There's something your mighty brain just doesn't get."

She punctuates that last word with her finger, pushing it against my head. I pull away but she just starts laughing. Inside Debs is still a gawky twelve-year-old who occasionally gets control. There are worse alternatives.

But she's right. I don't understand.

"Anyway, hate to tear you away from this but I got some things I need to bounce off of you."

There we are, back to normal. I could probably do with a distraction.

******************************

As often as it tends to happen, I dislike it when I get caught up in a case. I've learned from my mistakes with the Ice-Truck Killer and Prado. I'd like to say that this was different but I despise self-justification. The only difference with this case is that-

Let's not flashback to that.

Perhaps it's because soon was promised. And by any definition short of fossil record, soon is long gone. I've thought this through more times than I can count and every time I decide that it's better not to think about it.

Every time.

Maybe Debs is right. Maybe it's the not-knowing. It seems flimsy, though. Something the wife of a missing person might say to avoid grieving; no more a reason than denial. I don't like the tracks this train of thought is on. Thank God my phone rings. Rita needs me.

***********************************

Rita soothed and kids in bed, I make my way back to my apartment. My former apartment. Debs officially moves in tomorrow and Rita allowed me one last night. The box of slides has already been carefully moved and concealed, but I want to check that no stone has been left unturned, no evidence or speck remains. Rita, gifted as she is at coming up with excuses for me, assumes that I want to say goodbye to the place. She's even provided a six-pack and said that she'll see me in the morning. Her trust in me, her tolerance, never ceases to amaze me.

Blue lights are flashing behind me. A quick check of the speedometer confirms I'm within the limit. A routine check, perhaps. I take out my ID, just in case. At the very least, it should speed things up.

I pull over and wait for the obligatory tap on the window. Which doesn't come.

I wait. Two minutes go past and this feels a little out of the ordinary. Checking the rear-view, I see the cop is waiting in front of his sedan. The lights barely silhouette him; he must be leaning against the hood. He's waiting for me.

Like a good Boy Scout, I'm always prepared. I reach into the glove-box and get my licence, registration and a small switchblade. Two remain in my hand; the other is in my pants' pocket. Just in case.

"Officer," I call out, poking my head through the open window. "Can I help you?" As suspected, the figure between the headlights doesn't move. That confirms this isn't a cop. At least, this isn't an on-duty cop. The situation is becoming increasingly disconcerting, and yet reminiscent.

There's a thought, a tiny voice in the back of my mind and I refuse to listen to it. But the rush of adrenaline comes anyway as I open the door and climb out.

"Officer." I hold my hand and documents up as the beams blind me; purely intentional, I'm sure. The silhouette doesn't move and I find an arm reaching into my pocket of its own accord. My fingers curl around the knife, index brushing the release-button. Now I'm closer I can just make out the figure between the lights. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants are dark. It could be standard police issue. If I'm right about who this is, I hope it's not. Or that he's at least disposed of the body cleanly.

He straightens up, and I stop where I am. There's an impasse we've reached. Do I risk my hand, address him by name? Or wait for him to make the first move. I gently press the button and tilt the knife so that the blade is still concealed in my pocket. A car goes by and illuminates the figure. I slide the blade back into the handle.

"Hello again." Sylar's voice is unbearably self-satisfied, just as I remember.

"Hi." Nothing else to say right now. I'm keeping my cards close.

"It's been a while."

"Yup."

"Thanks for putting the blade away."

"It wouldn't have helped."

"No, it wouldn't." Sylar sounds like a teacher answering painfully obvious questions from a student. Which is fine. I've always worked best when people underestimate me.

"I'm in town for a little while. On business-"

I must remember to check for unexplained deaths.

"-I thought we should meet up."

About now I'd expect Harry to turn up. Give me some sage advice, or perhaps berate me for not having killed Sylar already; but there's nothing. I guess I'm on my own with this one.

Sylar walks forward and now I can see his face properly. There's something there. He's trying too hard to look composed. He hasn't been doing this long enough. Good.

"Sure, there's a bar down the street that-" I'm provoking him, I wonder if he'll notice.

"No. Your apartment."

He didn't. Super-powered he may be, but he's still new to this. Arrogance remains his greatest disadvantage.

"Can't do it, I share a house now." I'm trying to keep my tone breezy. A brief look of annoyance passes over his face and inside I'm grinning. He corrects it and I pretend not to have noticed.

"But," I pause, just enough to make sure I've got his attention, but not enough to make him realise I'm doing it. "I have a place."

If Sylar were a dog, his ears would have pricked up. In his defense, he keeps his expression neutral. "Private?" he asks.

"Secluded." I answer. I'm torn between laughing at him for how easy he's made this, and berating myself for ever thinking he was in control.

Another car goes past, dragging reality back into this surreal situation.

Sylar looks to the road and seems to finally realize that this already looks suspicious.

"Tomorrow, then," he says, before walking back to his car.

"You want the address?" I call over, knowing his answer already.

"I'll find you." Exactly as expected. It's sad to see that Sylar is somewhat predictable. I feel embarrassed for giving in so completely last time. Of course, I can't forget his little...advantages.

"I'm sure you will." I wait until he gets in his car and leaves before I return to mine. I wave him off and turn over the engine. I make a U-turn, returning to my new house, as though nothing happened. Ignoring the great epiphany of two minutes ago.

That, much as Sylar may think otherwise, he is not the man in control. Like Doakes, Brian, Miguel before him, I'll make sure he continues to believe it, right until I'm ready.

******************************

Given Sylar's refusal to take directions to my little hide-away in the swamp, I assumed he'd once again tail me. I was right. The black sedan starts following me just after the second intersection away from the precinct.

I'm also fortunate that Sylar is no early-bird. I told Rita that I had changed my mind, decided to spend the night with her and my new life. She smiled in that faintly angelic way she does when I've done exactly the right thing. This means she's much more forgiving when I get up before breakfast, for a run and a swim, and then later when I explain that I have a rush job to do and probably won't be back until early morning. She's a little sad, worries that I'm working too hard, but is accepting. My beautiful, perfectly damaged wife.

So, for the second time today, I'm driving along the road to a hut. Barely that even, just a few fence panels nailed together with a roof. Inherited from a former victim, renovated for today in the finest plastic wrap.

I pull up to one side, Sylar's car stops alongside.

"Nice place," Sylar sneers. Superiority? Check. I'll play along.

"Yeah, you should see indoors." I joke, thinking about the newly decorated insides.

"You keep it wrapped up?"

I stop, padlock open but door firmly closed. He knows about the plastic. But he's surprised, which means he's only just found out. So that would be, telepathy? On top of telekinesis, the freezing thing and being ridiculously fast. Okay. Another one to add to the list.

The lock swings free into my palm and I pull back the latch. I gesture for Sylar to enter and he does, head turning to take in the decoration.

"I guess it would save the cleaning in your line of work." Sylar pulls at the wrap, duct-tape holding it firmly in place. "Blood does tend to get everywhere."

"There's so much of it." I suppose it would be crude to note that blood isn't the only bodily fluid that gets everywhere. I look to the side and Sylar is laughing. I allow myself a smile.

Some of the tension has dispersed and I'm almost ready to ask him what's going to happen here. I pause with, is that nervousness I feel? Sylar seems to pick up on it and turns to face me. I only realize that I'm backed up against the table when Sylar start to walk closer to me. The shack is small enough and a few steps put him directly in front of me. I try to lean away a little, bracing myself against the table with one hand curled around the edge.

"You're wondering what I'm-" The needle catches him off guard, as I'd hoped. It's a relief that Sylar's telekinesis is only superficial, or I suspect this needle would have been destroyed before I'd gotten near it. There's enough tranquilizer in there to knock a grown man out in ten seconds.

Unfortunately, twenty have passed and Sylar is still stubbornly awake. On his knees, but not looking at all drowsy. He seems to have regained his bearings because he's straightening up, with one hand pointed towards me, accusingly. I suspect this is where I pass out.

Except that I don't. If I'm surprised by that, Sylar is more so. Oh please, please tell me that I've managed to knock out his powers. In a fair fight, I think I can take him.

Sylar's on his feet now and I have to take the risk. I rush forward, tackle him against the wall. The wooden panel shakes behind us and for a second I wonder if it'll hold. But I don't have time for that and I pin Sylar's hands with mine. Before I can hold his legs in place, Sylar head-butts me and I stumble backwards. I'm thrown onto the table, but I felt him push me so I'm sure that he's just normal now. Although that doesn't help much when I'm on my back with his hand around my throat.

"Why," Sylar growls and I have never heard a human make such an animalistic sound before, "did you drug me?"

"Self-preservation." I barely manage to get the words out as he's squeezing tightly, cutting off my air supply. A sharp punch to the abdomen sends him backwards. I gasp at the air, breathing deeply as my heart is thumping painfully in my chest.

I sit up on the table, waiting for another attack and am surprised when nothing comes. Sylar is leaning in a corner, holding his ribs with a wary look in his eye. A slight wheeze suggests that I winded him. Even so, he seems like he's trying to speak.

"What," Sylar coughs "what do you mean self preservation?"

I probably shouldn't have said that. It gave too much away, but it's too late now. The question is whether to lie or not.

"Don't lie. I'll know."

Missing powers or not, I believe him.

"I wasn't exactly sure how this little head to head would go. I wanted to make sure that there wasn't a repeat of last time."

Sylar looks unconvinced. "I didn't do anything you didn't want."

"You did choke me to unconsciousness." Nicely deflected, Dexter.

"I thought a little erotic asphyxiation would be a good way to round things off."

His tone is sardonic and I laugh. The tension seems to be fading away. I catch his eye and realise that I'm wrong. It's merely changed and he knows it.

"So what are you doing here, Dexter Morgan? Why risk a repeat performance?"

I want to take him off the streets. I'm following the code.

"Curiousity." I dislike the exposed feeling I get now every time I tell the truth. And while I know exactly why I said it, I'd rather not think about what that means.

Sylar's smiling. The arrogance has gone, though. He's more relaxed so the shell has cracked open and I think this might be the closest thing to real I'll ever see.

"We're off to a good start, aren't we?" The wheeze has gone, and he's standing upright, suggesting that, at worst I've bruised the muscle and not the ribs. "So far you've drugged me and tackled me against a wall."

"Some men pay a lot of money for that sort of treatment." The quip was supposed to be a humorous throwaway comment, designed to distract. Instead, it's practically flirtatious. My subconscious seems to have gotten the better of me.

"Really?" Sylar raises an eyebrow. "Well I'm afraid I'm a little short on cash at the moment, but perhaps you'll accept payment in kind?"

He's still firmly rooted in the corner, as near to the door as possible. He's ready for flight, despite his posturing. Waiting for me to respond, to encourage him. He knows who's in control here and he's waiting for his cue. Decision time, Dexter.

Well, what else am I doing here?

I jump up from the table and, to his credit, Sylar doesn't flinch. Shoulders back, he looks defiant as I walk towards him and this time, I'm certain who started it. I did. And I am not gentle.

With Rita, I have to hold back, stay controlled for fear the dark will take over and she'll end up hurt. I can't risk that; I have to keep up appearances.

But not here. Not now. Sylar can look out for himself and I can feel a surge as my dark passenger is let loose. I grab his hair, pulling tightly at it as I bite down hard on his lip. I can feel one of his hands around the back of my neck, blunt nails digging in and scratching. The quiet rational part of me thinks I'll have trouble hiding it but the dark roars it into silence.

A sudden metallic taste tells me that I've drawn blood; this spurs me on but even before I can act, Sylar has spun me against the wall, tearing at my polo-neck with both hands and repelling my tongue with his own. He breaks away just long enough to get my shirt off and in the brief seconds I see the blood smeared across his lips, tongue darting out to lick them clean.

I swallow hard and drag him back by his shirt, buttons easily sliding free until finally the shirt's hanging loose and open. I'm a little disappointed; I want to shred the fabric, send buttons flying to all the corners of the room. No matter.

I grab him, both arms between the shirt and his skin and bring his torso into contact with mine. Summer may be coming to an end, but in this un-air-conditioned shack we're both glistening with sweat from heat and exertion. It should feel slimy and unpleasant but the way we slide against each other doesn't feel anything but good.

For a while it's bliss - he claws at my neck and shoulders while I drag my hands up and down his back. Then it's suddenly not enough. I want more.

I pull away, trying to focus on the button fly of his jeans. These won't tear and I'm stuck unbuttoning each and every one. This is hard enough given both our states of arousal, but made worse when Sylar begins to bite down and lick my ear. The bizarre sensation distracts me and I have to lean back for a moment. He works his way down my neck until he reaches the crook. My concentration slowly returns and I try to look down, only to find both of Sylar's hands holding my jaw upwards. Apparently he doesn't want to relinquish his prize just yet.

I don't give a fuck. I wrench his hands down and return to the three remaining buttons, wishing a painful death on the designer of this damned fly. It's an awkward position and I'm bent almost double trying to get purchase with my slick fingers on the lukewarm metal. This gives Sylar access to the nape of my neck, an advantage he is quick to take up. He rakes his fingers up and down impatiently and when I'm finally done I take great pleasure in pulling his head back by the hair, latching my mouth onto his adam's apple and tonguing it as it bobs up and down.

My other hand shoves down one side of his jeans, grabbing tightly onto his hip. I hear the fabric fall to the floor as he pushes them the rest of the way down. He shifts to kick them free and I finally have him entirely at my disposal. I deliberately press him against my pants, rub his half-hard erection against the cotton, and delight in the rough sound he makes deep in his throat as it vibrates over my tongue.

I don't think he enjoys it as much as I do, though. He pushes me back against the wall, giving me an excellent view of the slowly forming hickey I've managed to create. I take a strange pride in that. He paws at my fly, fumbling one-handed with the zipper while grinding the palm of his other against my crotch. It's a futile exercise and he eventually has to use both hands to get everything undone. All the while I run my fingers down his side and up his back until I note a caught breath. I stroke my fingers down the ridge of his spine and hear it again. Now all I want to do is bend him over the table to find out what sound he'd make if I licked it.

But I don't get the chance because my fly is far easier to release and Sylar's hand is already moving between my legs. I'm determined not to be as easy as him, and resist his attempts to tease a response from my own semi-erect cock. One way or another, tonight he will learn what control really means.

Clearly annoyed, he wrenches down my boxers, chuckling when the band catches on my cock, causing it to bob up and down violently. I'm toeing off my shoes and stepping out of my clothes as he brings a hand up to his mouth. He licks each finger in turn, individually dipping them into his open mouth where his tongue swirls almost grotesquely around them. It's far from subtle but I can't deny its effectiveness. Even before a single finger touches me I'm almost completely hard. I want that tongue back and pull his mouth towards me as he swirls a first finger around my cock. He's torturing me, moving about as slowly and slickly as he can, so much so that when all fingers come into play I can't hold back the grunt of satisfaction. I'd bite my lip but they're far too busy right now defending themselves from Sylar.

Frustrating though he is, Sylar has inspired me. He may think he knows how this is going to end but my lesson hasn't even begun yet.

I curl my tongue beneath his, gently stroking the sensitive underside and feel his cock twitch against my leg. That's all the confirmation I need. I may be a novice, but I learn quickly. I push him back, hard. He connects with the table, bracing himself instinctively. I flash him my most predatory smile and sink to my knees. His breathing becomes shallow for a moment, before he realizes and takes a deep breath to correct it. Just as he breathes out I take the tip of his cock into my mouth. There's a bitter taste to it, but I ignore it and begin to follow the same path with my tongue as his fingers followed on mine. I can't take in much beyond the tip, but my hand at the base seems to make up for that. It takes a few moments to get a rhythm going, but I can hear his breath becoming shallow again.

Time for the lesson.

My free hand strokes his inner thigh, carefully searching for his balls and, on finding them, holds them firmly in place. I can feel them begin to contract and carefully apply pressure, preventing Sylar from coming. He yells in annoyance and grabs my hair, trying to thrust into my mouth. I squeeze slightly more on his balls and he stops. Good, he learns quickly.

I withdraw my mouth completely and look up into an expression of frustration. His mouth may be too proud, but his eyes are pleading with me. That look alone could make me come if I let myself. He's begging me, completely under my control and he knows it. But it's not his life I have in his hands. It's almost better.

"Only when I say so." I murmur, and he nods his understanding. I smile again and get back to the lesson. I alternate between licking, sucking, swirling, and looking up every-so-often to see the delicious desperation in his eyes. Whenever he gets close, I stop him. His knuckles are only a little up from my eye-level and look painfully white as he grips the table. I'm glad I decided to bolt it to the floor or who knows where we'd be by now.

After several minutes, I decide that he's had enough. His legs are locked and even leaning against the table, the strain of keeping himself upright is making him shake. I take the hand from his balls and suck hard, stroking my own cock as I look up at him. He's almost pathetically grateful and I can barely get my mouth away before he comes, semen spilling across my neck and shoulder. The look of his almost complete submission brings me quickly to my own climax and I barely notice that Sylar has slumped to the floor in front of me. I catch as much of my come in my hand as possible, wiping it on my discarded shorts, then mopping up my neck and shoulder with them. I'll dispose of the evidence later.

Sylar's leaning against a leg of the table. There's a faint glint of awe in his eye, but he mainly looks fucked and half-asleep. I'm tired myself, but there's due diligence to be done. I can't leave things the way they are.

I get up to collect our belongings. Fortune has once again smiled on me as one of Sylar's shoes landed close to where I hid my back-up syringe and kit. I carefully conceal the hypodermic as I bring the bundle of clothes over to the table, setting them carefully on top.

I sit down, syringe behind my back. Sylar's practically asleep already and I wonder if I should be merciful or if I should carry on with the lesson. But I know I can't just let him go.

I smile and quickly jab the syringe into his neck.

"I'm sorry," I say, surprised to realize that I mean it. "But I have a family to think of now." He struggles a little but finally his eyes close and he slumps forward.

Now the real work begins.

*********************************

I look forward to Sylar waking up, naked and alone, wrapped in layers of plastic and with, I'm told, a vicious headache from the drugs. I'm sure in normal circumstances he'd come after me, unable to see that this was merely an act of balance, his turn to wake up vulnerable and disorientated.

Of course, first he'll have to get out of the container and work out where on the ocean the ship currently is. Getting back will probably be difficult, although I suspect less difficult as for a normal person. Or maybe he'll stay away. I hear Mauritania is nice this time of year.

Either way, I hope, for his sake, he heeds my message, duct-taped to the ceiling above him.

GOODBYE


End file.
